Friday Night Punishment

On Friday nights, we eat dinner late, just the two of us. He works out of town all week, and comes home late Friday, sometimes on Thursdays, but almost always Fridays. I always cook dinner at home for him, and eat with him when he gets in. It’s a nice tradition, and we have so little time together, it allows us some private time. It’s not especially fancy, but I do cook something I know he likes, and I always make sure the house is clean, and I’m clean and freshly shaved, and dressed the way he likes. In the summer, that’s generally a sundress with nothing underneath. Our relationship reminds me sometimes of something from a 50’s sitcom… we have those clearly defined roles. It’s also something we both enjoy, although I suspect my more feminist friends would be shocked at how we live in private. I don’t think that the 50’s sitcom couples had the kind of kinky sex we do, though.

While he’s gone during the week, I still have tasks to do, some of them routine, and some he specially designates for that certain week. I keep an online journal for him, that he can access anywhere, and in it I record what I’ve done or haven’t’ done for his review.

This week, he got home late, after 10PM. He had called me about an hour before to let me know his route and when to expect him. I spent that last hour working on dinner, and checking through the house, picking up and getting ready. When I heard him pull into the driveway, as always, I turned down the stove and slipped out barefoot to the driveway to greet him.

I can see him climb slowly out of the truck, his body stiff from hours on the road. My heart races, even in the dim light he’s still so incredibly handsome. He spots me, and smiles, holding his arms open, and I fly into them, lifting my face expectantly and he twists his hand into my long hair, pulling sharply as he kisses me, his other hand roaming across my body. I moan into his mouth, hungrily returning his kiss. Slowly he pulls away from me, and nods towards the house. He carries his bags in and drops his suitcase in the laundry room, where tomorrow morning I’ll wash the weeks worth of dirty laundry and repack his bags for the coming week.

He glances through the pile of bills and correspondence I’ve set aside for him, we’ll deal with this later in the weekend in more depth. We chat easily and freely, as I make him a drink and bring it to him. The oven timer chimes, and I busy myself serving him dinner. I sit beside him at the table; we’ve never gotten into my eating separately or on the floor. He eats heartily, complimenting the meal, and I’m filled with pleasure at this. Amidst everything else, he is the center of my world, and pleasing him is my constant goal.

He motions for a second drink, which I bring him, and I clear the table. With just a few dishes to wash, I decide to do them then, rather than let them sit until morning. Suddenly he stands behind me, pressing against me, his lips gentle against my neck. I shudder with pleasure, and he lifts my dress, slapping my inner thigh when I don’t spread my legs fast enough for him. He runs the tip of his finger down my slit, feeling the wetness, and raises his finger to my mouth, watching as I softly lick my own juices from his finger. My body hums with need, and I arch back slightly into him, feeling his hard cock straining against his pants. My very favorite part of Friday nights is the reconnecting sex we have, after a week apart.

His voice rumbles low against my ear… “ It looks like you’re definitely in the mood” he remarks, and I nod, leaning back.

“ Too bad you’re not going to be enjoying yourself tonite” he continues, pulling back from me. I’m shocked for a moment, and then it hits me… he’s read my journal entries for this week, and knows I’ve not done half of what I was supposed to do, and broken several of his rules. I know full well I’m very spoiled, quite often he allows me leeway on things, and I have gotten into the habit of assuming that I’d get away with anything. My breath catches in my throat. More than the idea of not having wonderful reunion sex is the disappointment at his being upset with me.

When he speaks again, his voice is hard. “ Finish the dishes and then I want you upstairs, naked, and across the bed… you know what position.” I swallow hard, fighting back tears already, and whisper my request to have a cigarette first. He allows that, but gives me a 15 min time limit to be as he’s ordered. I know far better than to be even 10 seconds late with this time limit tonite. He’s left the kitchen before I’ve rinsed the last of the dishes, and I quietly slip out the back kitchen door to the side porch, watching the match flare in the darkness in my now trembling hand. I think to myself… I hate this… why do we do this?

I smoke quickly, and slip back into the house. With my son gone for the night, the house is silent as my bare feet pad up the stairs, and I enter our room apprehensively. He’s been here, and left, his shirt and tie draped over the closet door, and a quick glace at the clock shows I have three minutes left. I slip my dress off and hang it up, and walk slowly to the bed. I gather pillows from the head of the bed, stacking them in the middle, and climb onto the bed, lying over the pillows, which jut my ass higher in the air. My hands clasp together over my head, and I reluctantly spread my legs wider. I hate this position, I think to myself, it’s so exposed and makes me feel even more vulnerable. I hate waiting in this position even more, it just prolongs the agony of the whole experience, which I’m sure is why he does it. The minutes seem like hours as I wait for him.

I jump slightly as he enters the room. He doesn’t say anything to me for several minutes, but I can hear him moving about. I don’t dare turn my head and look to see what he’s doing. I can feel him set something on the bed, but I can’t tell what it is. He sits on the side of the bed, and his voice is low. “ How many days this week did you disobey me?” he asks.

“Four” I whisper into the mattress. His hand grasps my hair and lifts my head up. I wince at the sharp tug of my hair. “I didn’t hear you?” he growls.

“Four, Sir” I manage in a louder voice. “I thought so” he responds, lowering my head again. “Four days, ten strokes per day… my, my, sweet one, that’s 40 strokes for you tonite” he remarks. Silent tears slip down my cheeks already. I hate being punished. He stands again, and I cringe, knowing I’m going to find out what he set on the bed moments ago. His hand rests against my lower back. “I don’t expect you to move, do you understand me?” he asks.

“Yes, Sir, “ I whisper, tears catching my voice. I hate that now he knows I’m crying, before even the first stroke. He never restrains me during a punishment, he expects me to stay in that position on my own. He’s always said that is a clear indication to both of us that I’m willingly accepting his punishment.

The first few strokes are rapid fire, and loud, and I gasp in surprise and pain. I still haven’t identified this implement, and before I can try to think, he lays several more hard strokes across my ass. By the time he’s counted to ten, I’ve realized it’s the heavy black hairbrush he bought me back when we were dating, for just this sort of purpose. The hairbrush is my least favorite implement, and he knows this, which is why it’s a frequent choice for when he does punish me.

My ass hurts already, and he’s barely started. By the next ten, I’m quite openly sobbing. I want to roll over and get away from that hairbrush and his hard strokes. Halfway though the next ten, I’m trying to wiggle away, and his free hand pushes down firmly on my lower back. “I’ll give you ten extra if you move” he warns me.

By number 30, I’m sore and sobbing harder, and have given up trying to get away. I know he can feel the change in my body, and he loosens his pushing grip down on me. The last 10 are slower and harder… they always are. I shriek loudly with each blow, sobbing in between. Nothing deters him from delivering all 40 strokes. Amid my sobs, it takes me a few seconds to realize he’s finished and it’s over. My ass feels like it’s on fire. He stands there, watching me sob, for several minutes. Suddenly, CRACK! His hand explodes in a sharp slap against my ass, and I cry harder. He grabs my ankle, ordering me to move back several inches towards the end of the bed. Still sobbing, I manage to crawl back, dragging the pillows with me.

The cold lube dripped on my ass makes me shiver, and I moan softly. I’m not a huge fan of anal sex to begin with, and especially when I’m not turned on and upset, it’s my least favorite thing. His cock brushes against my sore ass, and he’s hard, and I know my tears turn him on and he’s going to take full advantage of this. He slides two fingers into my ass, spreading the cold lube inside me. I continue to cry softly and long to beg him to stop, but I don’t.

Suddenly his cock fills my ass, and I whimper at the pain and grip the bedding with my fists. I know he sees this, and it’s even more of a turn on for him, and he begins to thrust deeply into my ass, his hands gripping my hips and pulling me back onto him. For several minutes, he fucks my ass as I cry softly, and he occasionally slaps my sore ass, causing me to arch and clench around his cock. His moans of pleasure tell me he’s doing so because he likes how it feels for him. He thrusts faster and deeper, suddenly, and then he arches into me, groaning as he fills my ass with his cum. He stands there, still inside me, for several minutes as he catches his breath. As his cock slides out of my ass, I whimper again at the flash of pain. He leaves the bed room to go wash up, and I’m left lying there, still crying.

When he returns, he turns down the sheets and reaches beneath me to pull the pillows back to the top of the bed. My sobs subside into soft hiccups and occasional tears. He crawls into bed, and then softly I hear him say, “Come here, sweet one”. I crawl up towards him, sore and exhausted. He wraps his arms around me, kissing my temple; smoothing back my sweaty hair from my tear stained face. He kisses the tear streaks on my face, rubbing my back. I curl up next to him, my gasps muffled against his strong chest. I drift off to sleep in his arms, listening to the soft rumble of his voice telling me it’s over and I’m now forgiven. I know when I wake up, this is behind us, and we’ll go on, and I sleepily realize, that’s why we do this.